


Ice and Blisters

by hannaxe



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Skating, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Clay | Dream is Bad at Feelings (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream is Called Clay (Video Blogging RPF), Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Gay, Hockey, Ice Skating, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Slow Burn, Temporarily Unrequited Love, did i say ice skating, dream is horny, george hates dream, george is an idiot, karlnap, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28690848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannaxe/pseuds/hannaxe
Summary: I watched Spinning Out on Netflix and it made me want to write an au about figure skater George and Hockey player Dream.-George bent his knees and moved his body with easy strokes, both skates leaving deep incisions on the ice beneath him. The melody performed in his ears for no one to hear, but him; soft piano later accompanied by fierce and strong violin intertwined with his heartbeat. His movements were produced with smooth elegance. Every jump and spin was nothing short of balletic.-OrGeorge is a figure skater and Dream is a hockey player.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Sapnap, Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 368





	1. Digits

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is my first work pls be nice, um enjoy

A soft glow poured through the panes of the arenas towering skylights. Tranquility came with the rising sun, along with golden rays and few people. Well, there were few people because the rink wasn't _technically_ open. George regularly found himself approaching the custodian on early mornings with coffee and twenty bucks, allowing him to have the rink to himself.

The freshly paved ice that lay in front of him practically begged George to leave his mark with clean cuts and grooves. The crisp, cold air of the open room rested on his nose and cheeks, making for a cherry red color to be seen. He took in a deep breath and exhaled, seeing the fleeting, misty cloud form in front of his eyes. 

The rink was deserted. All for George.

He stepped onto the ice.

Having stretched before, he glided ahead effortlessly and approached the center of the unoccupied rink. He stilled himself with his eyes closed and chin up, taking his opening pose. The tune for his routine initiated in his AirPods and he set himself into motion, leaving the real world foreign to him.

George bent his knees and moved his body with easy strokes, both skates leaving deep incisions on the ice beneath him. The melody performed in his ears for no one to hear, but him; soft piano later accompanied by fierce and strong violin intertwined with his heartbeat. His movements were produced with smooth elegance, every jump and spin was nothing short of balletic.

It looked natural. As if he was meant to be on the ice.

The strain in George’s ears gradually grew more intense as time went on, so did his routine. It was packed with spins and leaps that only the more experienced could fulfill without breaking their neck. George took pride in himself when he landed every single component flawlessly and when he spun so fast everything converted to one monstrous blur.

He finished his short routine and the instrumental music faded into an eerie silence, leaving George to find himself in the center of the rink where he had begun shortly before. He stood with his arms out and his expression barren; his chin was up and his chest was puffed, pouring confidence over his whole body. Beads of sweat found their way down his face as he stood, catching his breath in the final pose of the routine. The beanie and jacket he was wearing now felt rather warm.

His arms were heavy as he allowed them to finally drop to his sides, he hung his head in exhaustion as well. The confidence that oozed from him moments ago was no longer traceable.

And his feet hurt.

Breathing in and out, in and out, in and out, George caught his breath. He shifted his gaze from the now scuffed crystal floor to the hollowed-out audience seats. Many times, George has looked distant into the audience and seen roaring applause and standing ovations; he loved the sensation. He loved what he felt when he amazed people with his inherent grace as it came easy to him.

Skating was like breathing. He couldn’t go without it.

 _Again_ He thought to himself.

He drowsily brought his phone out of his sweatpants pocket to press _play_ on the track that was still drawn upon his Spotify. The piano keys began to ignite in his ears once more and George closed his eyes for the start of the piece.

Before he knew it, he finished.

 _Again_ He thought.

He finished.

_Again._

Over and over.

_He had to be perfect._

_Again._

_Again._

_Again._

George was about to take off for what seemed to be the millionth time that morning when the custodian approached the half-door entrance to the rink.

“Hey, kid, we need to resurface the ice. Rinks opening in 30 minutes,” the older man hollered.

“One more time?” He shouted back from the center of the ice.

“No, George, come on,” The man motioned with his head to the lobby that attached to the spacious room. George sighed and took his AirPods out. They were almost dead anyway.

He pushed off with his left leg and glided to the short gate where the custodian was. “Thanks anyway, Mark.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mark scoffed.

George moved out of the rink, balancing on the thin metal that was connected to the underside of his shoe. He walked to the lobby and took note of the people who were already starting to arrive. He rolled his eyes, he was _not_ a people person.

For a split second, he observed them. Mothers arrived with their youthful children who were exuding excitement. Men and women, all sorts of various ages, had layers of garments on with caps or earmuffs to keep themselves warm. That was George’s favorite part. The cold. It was stimulating. George has admired the feeling of the icy breeze whispering over his skin since he was a young boy. 

A young boy that would skid on the ice and tumble face-first on the frozen-over pond outside his family home. Fond memories flooded George’s mind as he relived those moments from so long ago.

He missed it. His home and his family.

America, however, had some of the best schools in the world and one of them happened to offer George a scholarship that he couldn’t turn down. It ripped him from his loved ones and now he was here. 

In America. 

Alone.

The bitter reflection made George shiver and snapped him back to reality. He took a deep breath in and let it go, he wasn’t in the mood to get worked up over this.

In the center of the long-drawn-out lobby sat multiple wooden benches. The farthest seat to the left held George’s black bag, which was sinking over the edge. He was pleased no one had touched it since he had left it unsupervised.

He perched himself next to the bag and leaned down to unlace his tight skates, the relief he felt afterward feeling immeasurable. His feet and ankles suggested that they had rotted into the leather and plastic. George slipped them off, along with his sweaty socks, and looked at his throbbing feet. They were a deep shade of red all over with new and worsening blisters coating them. He fixed this the best way he knew how: Band-aids and oblivion.

Sliding on clean socks that he prepared earlier that morning, he followed with his regular everyday shoes. His feet stung. He jostled his skates into his bag and dragged his phone out of his pocket to see the time.

_9:36._

His eyes widened. 

_Shit._

Somehow, George was practicing his routine for nearly 4 hours. _When did it get this late?_ He was late for work. He was supposed to be there at 9:00. He immediately slung his bag over his shoulder and stood up from the bench, feet still stinging as he walked. He should have known how late it was _._ When the custodian told him they were opening the rink, _he should have known_.

George essentially jolted towards the lobby’s doors, reaching for the handle in a hurry, but before he could grab a hold of it, someone else on the other side pulled it open for him.

George stopped dead in his tracks. The man in front of him stood unmoving as well, however, he still wore a self-righteous grin. A large sports bag was fastened over his broad shoulders with a hockey stick protruding outwards. He was practically looking down on George because of his towering height; green eyes piercing holes into George’s brown ones.

 _Clay_.

Why now? Why now when George was late for work? He did not have the time to get harassed by the hockey team’s defenseman.

“God, George, why are you in such a hurry?” The blonde asked between snickers.

George rolled his eyes, “I’m late for work so can you move? You’re in my way.” He was not pitying Clay’s feelings, being as he could not care. He had more pressing matters to worry about, such as possibly getting fired for being late for the third time this month.

The taller equipped a surprised look that quickly melted away when he started laughing again, “Damn, someones grumpy.” He paused for a moment, his smile fading. He looked George up and down. “I bet I could make you feel better,” He winked mid-sentence and George had to force a glare through the loud silence floating between them. 

This came as no shock to George. The man delivered poor attempts at flirting every day; cheesy pick-up lines, inappropriate suggestions, and dense compliments that George knew was just a ploy to get him into bed.

“Believe me,” George scrunched his nose, “I am not interested.”

“Oh come on,” Clay teased, “You know you like me.”

“I most definitely do not, now can you please move?”

“I’ll move once you give me your number.” He had a smug look on his face that made George want to knock his lights out-

“Clay, I do not have the time for this. Please, for the love of God, move.”

“Number,” Clay demanded, he gestured his phone outwards towards George’s chest, looking self-satisfied.

This was not his first time attempting to get his digits. He asked nearly every day, though George continually made his way out of those situations.

He attempted to simply nudge the tall man of the way, but he didn’t budge. He was probably twice the size of George, so it was no use. He begrudgingly took Clay’s phone in his smaller hands and created a new contact. He marked his name down as _George_ and proceeded to type in his _real_ number. Probably a mistake.

“Here,” He held the phone back out to the overly confident man, “Can I go now?”

“Depends, is this your real number?”

“Of course it is, you idiot.”

Clay glanced down at his phone and patted several times with his thumbs, “I sent a message, did you get it?”

George stared at him with an unamused facial expression and pulled his phone from his pants pocket, not breaking eye contact until he shifted his gaze to his phone screen.

The message read _ur hot_ and George looked up to view Clay with a shit-eating grin on his face. “‘You’re hot’? Really?” Clay doubled over, laughing stupidly hard. His wheeze caused him to sound like he was deflating.

George took this as an opportunity to shoulder the man out of his way and finally escape.

“I’ll call you later, Georgie!” Clay shouted from behind him. George’s single response was to stick up his middle finger at him and continue walking forward. _Yeah_ , George thought, _definitely a mistake._

_-_

Nearly 8 hours later and it was 5 p.m., George, by the grace of God, had not gotten fired for being late again. He, now back at his dorm, momentarily remained at his desk with his laptop in front of him. He tried getting some school work done, but alas he repeatedly zoned out.

He reflected on his especially boring shift. 8 hours had felt like 8 years, however, George found himself getting entertained with periodic texts from Clay. They were all stupid come-ons, but they still managed to make George laugh and/or cringe. At least it was a distraction from the tedious work environment.

George, of course never responded to any of the said texts. He didn’t want Clay’s number in the first place, he didn’t even have his contact saved. 

He should probably do that.

And so he did.

He grabbed his phone off of his desk, giving up on his homework, and tapped Clay’s unidentified phone number. He pressed the box that read _Make new contact_ and decided to label him as _idiot._ It seemed more than appropriate.

Multiple texts had gone unanswered throughout the day, beginning with the original _ur hot_ message and concluding with a recent text that had George perplexed at how foolish this man was.

_Let’s play carpenter. First, we’ll get hammered, then I’ll nail you. ;)_

George scoffed to himself, rolling his eyes.

He decided that it would be quite amusing to answer him with a simple _no_ and be done with it.

Clay then responded with an image, seemingly unphased.

**_Is there a mirror in your pants?_ **

**_I think I can see myself in them._ **

_Really?_

That was literally all the image said. How horny was this man?

 _you are such a moron._ George replied.

He sent another image and George audibly sighed before he could even read it.

**_If I flip a coin,_ **

**_What are my chances of getting head?_ **

And with that, George elected to turn off his phone and place it back down on the desk. He gave the small knob on his lamp a gentle twist and watched as the light was sucked out of the quaint dorm. The sudden darkness cast subtle shades of deep blue and black against the surfaces of his room.

He waltzed blindly across the floor to his tiny twin-sized bed that somehow managed to fill most of the small space and crawled underneath the thick covers. George finally closed his eyes, allowing himself to unwind.

Naptime.

\- 

Okay, probably not the most beneficial idea to take a nap at 5 p.m. because it was now 1 a.m. and George was not tired at all.


	2. Bribe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream needs help with homework, George needs money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY! long time no see, I am SOOO sorry for not updating for so long. won't happen again!!!!

George had attempted to return to sleep for quite a while, however, his thoughts held him conscious. George’s mind was working against him tonight. His head felt as though it was being swarmed by bees, each bee being a loud, buzzing, obnoxious reflection. 

His brain would switch up amongst things like being homesick, or a future competition, or his stupid phone that kept buzzing repeatedly on his desk. 

_Buzz_

Almost on cue. This was roughly the millionth time it had gone off and George was still in bed, too lazy to get up and see who it was.

He glanced over at his small, black alarm clock on his bedside table and read the displayed numbers.

_1:42_

Who the hell was blowing up his phone at 1:42 in the morning? The realization hit him that someone might need him and he began to panic.

Sitting up and shuffling out of the bed, he threw his sheets off of him and quickly stood to his feet, causing his vision to go cloudy and his head to hurt from the lack of water. He couldn’t see because his light was off, but he wandered the few steps opposite from his bed anyway. 

That resulted in stubbing one of his toes on the hard wooden desk.

“Shit!” he whisper-yelled, stabilizing his hands onto the desk to assist him not falling to the floor in pain.

After a few seconds of him leaning against the desk, he regained composure and turned on his lamp. His phone was lying face down on the surface and it buzzed once again.

When George finally concentrated on the missed messages on his lock screen, he realized he stubbed his toe for nothing. It was Clay. Being annoying once again, spamming his phone over and over. 

_George_

_George_

_George_

_George_

This man was an idiot. Giving Clay his number was probably the most regretful thing he could have done. He unlocked his phone and texted him back.

_Shut the fuck up oh my god_

_What do u even want??_

Clay instantly started typing back and replied in no time.

_Can i call u?????_

George rolled his eyes, but he was bothered something might be wrong so he dreadfully said _yes._

His phone immediately began ringing and he picked it up, of course.

“George!” Clay shouted as soon as George answered.

“What? Why do you need me at almost 2 a.m.?” George snarled.

“You’re friends with Karl, right?”

Karl was sadly George’s _only_ friend, They had 3 classes together and they also practiced at the rink with each other a lot. Karl was his only source of joy, really. Laughter and comfort came with Karl.

“Yeah… Why?”

“He said that you’re smart and that you also have Mr. Montgomery.”

“What does my professor have to do with this?”

“Dude, I’m trying to tell you. I also have him and I literally just remembered, like, ten minutes ago that we have an assignment due tomorr-“

George cut him off because he could see where this was headed, “I am not going to help you with your homework, you should have done it earlier.” He was quite the hypocrite in this situation, considering he had found himself in Clay’s shoes many times.

“George, please!” Clay whined, “I will literally pay you.”

“Clay, you cannot _buy_ me, you can figure it out on your own. It’s not even that hard.” 

The thing was, George was actually running low on money, but his pride was more important than his lack of cash. The money used on resharpening his skates and buying different textbooks was running his bank account dry. Not to mention, he hadn’t eaten in a while either.

“$50.”

“What?”

“$100.”

“Clay quit.”

“$150.”

The empty dorm fridge in the corner of his room was practically screaming at George for not agreeing to this yet. He felt that $150 was unquestionably way too much money, but he was also broke as hell.

“Um… I-I don’t know.” 

“Dude, George, homie, best friend, HELP ME!” Clay yelled into the phone so harshly that George had to pull it off from his ear.

He gave in. “Okay, okay, god. How much of the assignment do you have done?” 

“Wait, seriously? You’re going to help?” Clay exclaimed.

“Yes, idiot, only because I’m broke as shit.” He didn’t mean for that part to slip out, it was rather embarrassing to him. He hadn’t even informed his parents, who would be more than happy to float him for a while. He felt like he needed to prove that he could do this on his own for some reason.

George held his phone away from his ear and put Clay on speakerphone, depositing the phone back on his desk. He sat down in his armchair and grabbed his overly large backpack from the carpeted floor, setting it on his lap to locate the homework needed.

“You’re broke? I can give you more if you need it, George.” Clay sounded genuine, something George had never heard. The way he said his name was filled with concern and almost a hint of pity. Normally when Clay said his name, It would be followed with a catcall or a wink.

He paused shuffling through the bag, focusing on the conversation at hand. “No, no, don’t worry about it. You don’t even have to give me the $150, I feel bad.”

“How much do you need?”

“Seriously, it’s okay. I’ll manage.”

“George, I know I mess with you a lot, but I am happy to help.” His tone was soft and caring, unlike the loud and obnoxious voice he tended to use at the rink around the other members of the hockey team. 

“I told you, I’m okay. I have my ramen and my dorm, I’m basically living the dream.” He tried to keep the conversation light-hearted by cracking a joke.

“When was the last time you ate? A proper meal that is.”

George felt himself shrinking in his chair as Clay essentially called him out for not having enough money to keep himself well-fed. He wasn’t wrong in that assumption, but that’s what made it hurt even more.

“Clay I told you, I’m fine,” George couldn’t help the almost angry sound of his voice from feeling embarrassed and looked down upon, shifting from the joking tone before, “drop it. Please.” 

He entirely disregarded Clay’s question on purpose because he hadn’t had a decent meal in who knows how long. He survived on skipping breakfast and eating ramen noodles for lunch and dinner. 

“Okay. Fine.” There was an awkward beat of silence before he spoke up again, “what’s your PayPal? So I can pay you for the homework at least.”

George sighed and pushed his bag off of his lap, now having his finished homework laid out on his desk, and grabbed for his phone. He opened the chain of texts with Clay and granted the link to his PayPal account. “There, I sent it.”

There was no talking from either of the two for a moment. That was until he heard Clay giggling over the line.

“What? What are you laughing at?” George asked, puzzled as to what had the blonde so amused.

That question was shortly answered though, as a notification from PayPal popped up at the top of his screen.

**_You received $300.00 USD from Dream_ **

_Shut the fuck up and take my money!!!!!!!!!!!_

George dropped his phone, earning a heavy _thud_ on the surface of his desk, which only made Clay laugh louder.

_What the fuck?_

That was all that was running through George’s head. _What the fuck? Why the fuck? How the fuck?_

“Clay! What the fuck?!” George voiced, finally letting his thoughts escape through his mouth. He forgot for a moment that he was in a dorm with almost 200 sleeping students and suddenly quieted down at the thought, hearing the blonde wheezing over the line. “Clay, seriously, I cannot take this money. I-I’m not taking it.” He stuttered over his words, shocked by the foolish act. 

He opened the app where the money was sitting and stared at it, jaw dropped open. He noticed Clay had his name as _Dream_ which George found strange, but he didn’t question it. That was the least of his worries.

After Clay seemed to calm down from his laughing fit, he finally spoke, “dude, if you don’t take the fucking money, I’m just going to leave it sitting there. I’m not taking it back.”

“You are so annoying. I don’t need it, I promise.” He lied, “I feel way too guilty and I don’t know if I will even be able to pay you back.”

“You do need it and you’re not paying me back,” The soft and caring tone was back and George felt himself melt a little bit. “Take the money.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” He queried, “You barely even know me.”

George had the right to be confused, considering the only occasions where they conversed was when Clay flirted with him relentlessly and George was short in response. He suddenly felt a stream of guilt settle over him, realizing that Clay might not actually be a colossal dickhead.

“Because I like you and I don’t want you to starve to death,” The blonde joked. “And I might barely know you, but perhaps we can change that.”

The brunet was about to turn him down for the millionth time by reflex, but George felt that would be unfair considering he just gave him $300. 

Did it feel slightly like prostitution? Maybe.

Did he care? No.

“Yeah, okay. I think I would like that.”

Clay let out a small laugh before adding, “Now take the money, dumbass.”

“I ca-” He began to protest again, but was cut off.

“Do it or I’ll send more”

That was all the convincing George needed as he promptly held his breath and pressed the _Transfer to bank_ option.

-

When George finally finished helping Clay with his schoolwork, it was almost 5 a.m. 

Clay yawned over the line and George followed suit, both boys being extremely exhausted. The call had been filled with laughter and frustration as George tried to explain the subject to Clay, who somehow still managed to not understand. But here they sat, 3 hours later, with a completed assignment.

“Thanks, by the way,” George mumbled after a few moments of comfortable silence.

“Hm?” Clay’s voice was rough with the sleep that George knew he craved.

“I said thanks, uh, for the money I mean.”

“Don’t worry about it, thanks for helping me with my schoolwork, George.”

The older started to pick up on how Clay would say his name in sentences where it wasn’t needed and felt a smirk creep upon his face.

“You should probably get some sleep, you sound like shit,” George added before giggling.

He could hear Clay scoff before he spoke again, “like you sound much better,” he retorted.

George laughed a little louder and the call fell into a comfortable silence once again.

The blonde cleared his throat, breaking the stillness, “um, we seriously should get some sleep though, I have a class in three hours.”

The brunet thought of all of the things he had to do the following day and became filled with dread. George wasn’t getting sleep anytime soon. He laughed (his unhealthy way of coping with stress) and shook his head.

“Why are you laughing?” Clay asked, the grin evident in his voice.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just don’t have the time to sleep tonight.”

“What? Why? How early do you have to be up?” You could no longer hear a smile in his voice, it was now filled with concern for the older boy.

“Well,” he began, “I’m headed to the rink after we hang up and practicing until I have to go to work, which starts at 9. I’ll be there until 5 and then I have a night class at 6 that doesn’t end till 8:30.” As he listed his to-do list out loud he wanted to drop out. A wish he would never fulfill, but the thought was appealing, to say the least.

“Jesus, George, when was the last time you slept?”

“I had a nap before you called me, I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“Even with a nap, that’s intense,” Clay sounded more than worried despite George’s request, “the rink isn’t even open yet, how are you going to practice?”

“I bribe the janitor,” George giggled.

“WHAT?!” Clay yelled out of his phone speakers, “What do you mean?! Do you fuck him or something?”

“Yeah,” George answered monotoned. This was an obvious lie, but tired confidence made him want to hear the blonde’s reaction.

“WHAT?!” He yelled again, louder this time, “are you serious? I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

He was going to push it, “I’m serious!” He exclaimed while trying to suppress a laugh.

“So after you hang up on me, you’re just going to casually get dicked down by Mark?” Clay asked, bewildered, “How has _he_ fucked you and I haven't?” He sounded genuinely confused.

George felt his cheeks redden from either holding in his laughter or the comment Clay just made. “I don’t know, maybe you should try harder.” He didn’t know where this confidence was coming from, but he found it entertaining nonetheless. 

“Wha- Dude, literally come over.”

Taken aback by the remark, George began laughing and eventually gave up his act, “Oh my god, I was just kidding, I don’t _fuck_ Mark, idiot.”

Clay let out a loud wheeze before adding, “literally eat ass bro.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayo, you made it to the end. this chapter made me laugh so hopefully you too, if you have suggestions on where I should take this fic, lmk! I would be more than happy to use your ideas :]


	3. Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Karl and George for you :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rewritten this chapter about 5 times :( it took all of my willpower to not rage quit, BUT I ended up with this. hope you guys like it! The next chapter is about to go HARD you don't even know

The mixture of chilled morning air and hot steam from coffee collided together on George's silken cheeks. Heavy snow was emptying from the clouds above, accumulating on his featherlike hair and soaking through the pale blue sweatshirt draped over his shoulders. He felt chills crawl down his spine every time a flurry fell past his backpack and upon the backside of his neck. 

Early morning had yet to see the rising of the sun, coloring the sky with washed-out blues and purples as white sparkles fell before him. George loved the sight. Seeing the serene beauty of the world before everyone was awake; any faint sounds being muffled by the snow piling on the ground. It was peaceful _._

Lamp posts were still on at this hour, although not quite needed. The sky was bright enough to bring illumination to his path, but as the snow passed by the bulbs, he couldn’t help staring. The swift pace of the flakes descended rhythmically around the aura of light and onto the sidewalks.

 _Pretty,_ George thought.

The trek from his dormitory to the ice arena was a rather brief one, thankfully. While George loved the icy allure brought to his street and the undisturbed quietness, it was fucking cold. His hands were kept warm with the disposable coffee cup wedged between them, but the rest of his body felt numb. 

George shortly arrived at the sizable glass doors of his destination and pressed his face against the windows, peering indoors. The lighting was rather dim inside with only a few overhead bulbs on, but he took note of the custodial cart in the center of the lobby. Mark was nearby.

He pulled his face away from the glass and used his hand that wasn’t holding the black coffee to knock. 

_Thump-thump._

The sleeves of his sweatshirt were drawn over his hands, giving him sweater paws, which softened the impact of his knuckles tapping the glass. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other whilst awaiting Mark’s appearance, trying to distract himself from the frigid temperature. 

George acknowledged a gentle hum against his thigh from the phone that rests in his pocket, signaling a notification, and opted to ignore it as he _finally_ saw Mark totter his way to the entrance. The middle-aged man shook his head, smiling, and grasped for the keys dangling from his belt that also displayed a cell phone holster and his clip-on I.D.

The younger held the coffee next to his face and gave it a gentle shake to draw the janitor’s attention to it.

“Again?” Mark asks while pushing the door open with his left arm.

“Yes,” George says, “I have your coffee!” He taunted the cup in front of the janitor’s eyes and smiled as the man scoffed, yet still accepted the offer.

He took a sip, “Have at it, kid.” 

Quickly thanking him, George passed through the door that Mark still had propped open and immediately felt welcomed by the familiarity of the spacious room. High-ish ceilings and ceramic floor tiles made up the lobby, accompanied by a grand archway with a corridor connected that would eventually lead to the rink. It was slightly warmer inside, giving enough relief to force his body out of the numb state from the slushy snow.

Mark’s fairly large cart sat near the archway, but was soon relocated as he gave George a small wave and headed to the bathrooms, coffee in hand. George waved in return, settling the bag that held his skates on one of the multiple benches in the middle of the room. He felt his phone vibrate against his leg for a second time and reached into his pocket to grab for it. When he pulled it out, he viewed a message from Clay that had been left unnoticed for 2 minutes, which in turn, caused the two small vibrations.

He sat down, reading the message.

_have fun with mark_

George laughed while he recalled the conversation from less than an hour ago and quickly typed out a response.

_don’t worry, i will ;)_

Clay almost immediately countered with a middle finger emoji, prompting George to laugh again as he placed his phone down on the bench next to him. Their earlier phone call had ended soon after George lied to Clay about his unholy acts with the janitor, telling him he had to go practice.

_“I really think you should get some sleep instead,” Clay had said, “it’s not healthy to push yourself like this.”_

_“Stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine.” George reassured._

_“Are you sure? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”_

_“I’m sure. I’ve done this too many times to count. I’ll live.”_

_“This is a regular occurrence? Come on, George, this isn’t good for you. At some point, you’re going to reach your limit.”_

_“Clay stop, It’s not that big of a deal. Let it go.”_

George reflected on their previous conversation and found it strange how worried the blonde had been about him. Sure, he knew Clay wanted to get in his pants, but did he actually care about him in a way that wasn’t purely sexual? Was he really concerned about him? Or did he just want to get George into bed with money and fake nurture? He wouldn’t put it past him.

George brushed the thoughts off, having more important things to focus on at the moment, and removed his tennis shoes from his feet. He shuffled his hands around in his bag and pulled out the leather skates which had their protective plastic guards wrapped over the thin metal, sheltering them from knicks and scratches. The guards were gently tugged off by George’s cool fingers and returned to his backpack.

With the boots sitting in his lap, he loosened the laces down to the tip and placed them on the floor by his heels. He slid his feet into them, one at a time, and acknowledged a familiar intimate feeling that crowded him with warmth and excitement. 

George always got this feeling before skating, knowing he was about to be where he belonged. On the ice.

He adjusted the laces to his liking, making it specifically snug around his ankles to give support, and tied them off with a neat bow which was tucked to prevent them from coming undone. Before George stood to his feet, he dug his hands inside the bag, once more, and retrieved his AirPods along with the phone resting by his side. 

The headphones in hand were soon placed into his ear canals after standing and shaking his limbs to warm them up. There was an additional couple of inches joined with his height because of the tall shoes, catching him off guard even after so many years of feeling the strange sensation.

When he eventually felt ready, he headed to the rink. 

_Finally_.

The walk beneath the archway and through the hall was short, already finding himself standing at the small gate. He unfastened the latch to the door and swung it open, observing the unmarked ice taunting him like it always did. George hadn’t spent any extent stretching today even though he knew he was risking a torn muscle, he didn’t plan on it either. He felt like every moment he wasn’t in the rink was a waste of time. 

Wasted time wasn’t an option for him.

Regionals were inching closer and closer by the day, stressing George out on top of the classes that he could barely manage. An abundance of prodigious skaters would be pinned against each other, including George, and it was nerve-racking. He could feel his heart rate increase just thinking about it.

He held in a deep breath to calm himself and finally planted his foot against the ice. Catching the crunch of steel meeting the smooth surface was always so satisfying. Music to his ears. 

After pushing from the wall, he drifted to the center of the rink with long strokes; it felt as though he was floating amongst the chill air that encompassed him. The gentle scrape against ice filled his ears through his earbuds until he ultimately came to a halt. He basked in the silence of the empty arena before drawing his phone from his pocket to start the routine music.

He took his pose. All worries were gone. Just him and the ice.

He began.

-

Several hours of skating and aching muscles later, George found himself at his 9 to 5 shift for the day. 

His training session had gone as usual, with him executing beautiful leaps and thrilling spins upon the field of ice; matching the tempo of the melody with each twist and turn. He had made sure to not be late again by leaving the arena nearly 30 minutes early.

He now sat on break, being as it was almost noon, and allowed himself to relish in the warm atmosphere of the quaint coffee shop he serviced on campus. The small booth in which he sat occupied the corner of the room, giving him some much-wanted privacy after dealing with customers for hours.

The fatigue hit him like a ton of bricks when he finally relaxed into the upholstery and laid his head down into the crook of his elbow, which rested on the wooden table underneath him. He had been awake since 1 a.m. and all he wanted to do at this point was curl up into his sad, little bed in his sad, little dorm and sleep. 

George gradually began nodding off in the awkward position he rested in, craving the sleep that his body _needed._ Just a few more seconds with his eyes sealed and muffled chatter swelling inside his ears and he would be out. Just a few more secon-

“BOO!”

A familiar voice shouted in his eardrums while two hands grabbed at his shoulders and shook them aggressively. George snapped his head up, away from his bent arm, and felt like his heart had dropped through his stomach. 

“God, idiot, why would you do that?” George asks, exasperated, while placing a hand over his chest. 

Looking through a blur, he saw Karl standing next to the booth, laughing annoyingly hard. George rubbed the sleep from his eyes and watched as Karl placed himself in the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“Because it was funny!” Karl returns, supplying a grin, “You’re not supposed to sleep on break anyways, nimrod.”

“Yes, but I have been up since 1 a.m.” George groaned.

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

“ _Yours_ actually.”

“What?” Karl quipped, “How is it my fault?” 

“Because you told Clay that I’d help him with his homework and he kept me awake all night.”

“Okay first of all,” The fluffy-haired man began, “I told him you guys had the same professor, I didn’t say you would help him.” George watched as he explained and held up a finger for each point he made, “Second of all, It’s not my fault you agreed to it.”

George threw his head back, groaning, as it settled on the backing of his chair. “Karl, the idiot gave me 300 dollars, I had to.”

Karl’s jaw practically plummeted to the ground before covering his mouth with an outstretched hand, “What?! 300?!” He shrieked through his fingers. “My man is horny.”

George laughed, “I know.” Although, on the inside, he still _didn’t_ know if that’s why Clay had given him the money. Thinking about it caused too much stress on his tired brain, so he turned down the inquiries and focused on his friend sitting before him.

Amusement weighed heavily in the air before Karl broke the silence. “Still not my fault you didn’t sleep.”

They held eye contact for a moment before Karl burst out laughing and George rolled his eyes.

“Why are you even here, Karl? You don’t like coffee.” Several months of knowing the younger taught him that the man effectively survived on Monster Energy drinks.

“What? I can’t visit my beautiful, talented best friend without having a reason?”

 _Oh god,_ George thought to himself, _he wants something._ He stared at his friend for a few seconds, searching his face for any hint of how bad the situation was.

“Karl-” He started to question, but he must’ve been staring too intently beforehand because he was cut off immediately.

“How do you feel about hockey?” 

“No,” George deadpanned before he could even think.

“Oh come on, George, please!” Karl pleaded, “It’s Nick’s first game since we’ve started… Y’know…” He trailed off, “and I want to watch, but I can’t sit by myself or I’ll look like a loser.”

Nick was Clay’s best friend, who was also on the hockey team, and Karl was completely infatuated with him. His ruthless attempts at getting his attention had somehow worked out for him, however, because they were now talking and it was going rather well between the two. Sickeningly so. George nearly gagged every time he saw them flirting in the locker room or trying to sneakily hold hands. They were _too_ cute.

George _definitely_ wasn’t jealous.

“Why do I have to go?” George groaned, “Can’t you take Niki?”

“She’s busy, already asked.” Karl says, “Plus she wouldn’t be able to stand the fights.”

Knowing Niki, he was right.

“So I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Karl let out a sound of relief as George basically gave him an answer, “Please tell me that’s a ‘yes.’”

“You owe me.”

“I literally love you so much.” He hastily stood and bent over the table dividing them to drown George in a hug.

“Yeah, yeah.” He hugged back for a quick second before nudging him off, “When is this stupid thing anyway?”

“This Saturday, idiot, when else would it be?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never gone?” He glanced down at the table where his phone sat and saw the date underneath the displayed time.

_Thursday_

George was filled with dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KARLNAP LMAO


	4. Touché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hockey game and celebratory party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a pretty long chapter for you guys because of my absence, hope you don't hate me o_o also I hope this chapter makes sense, it is 7 am and I have not slept.

Saturday arrived sooner than George had wanted it to.

Not that he didn’t want to spend time with Karl, he just tended to find hockey rather grim. Grown men leaving each other with bloody noses over a stupid piece of black rubber; concussions and strains distributed amongst them like participation medals. It was ridiculous in George’s eyes. 

This also happened to be the first time he would have a chance to talk to Clay in person, having not seen him since he randomly decided to pay his grocery bill for the next couple of weeks. They texted here and there, but they hadn’t run into each other at the rink like they usually did. Though, it had only been two days, so George didn’t think that much of it.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to act when he saw him for some reason. _If_ he saw him _._ He was nervous in a way. It’s not like Clay had turned into a saint after that night, if anything his demeanor was still the same towards George, still sending those stupid pick-up lines now and then.

But alas, here he sat, waiting on Karl’s couch for him to get ready for the game. 

His roommate wasn’t there at the moment, which saved George from the awkward small talk that would ensue, and Karl was currently scrambling through the dorm like a chicken with his head cut off. Every time he looked in the mirror, he would decide his outfit wasn’t good enough for Nick and would shuffle across the room to grab another shirt or sweater. 

“Karl, you look fine.” George reassures, “He’s going to like whatever you wear.”

Karl paused what he was doing to look George up and down, clearly skimming his clothing choices, “I am not taking advice from you, you are literally wearing a hoodie and sweats.” He then turned to dig his hands back into the tall wardrobe, “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were straight.”

George grabbed the throw pillow that sat next to him and promptly flung it at the back of Karl’s head, “shut up and pick something, dumbass.” The watch on his wrist told him they were going to be late if the man didn’t hurry up. “The game starts at 6, we have like ten minutes.”

The two wouldn’t be able to talk to Nick or Clay until after the sport would end, but George hated being late to places and Karl was taking what seemed like centuries to just pick _something_ to wear.

“Ow!” He yelped as he rubbed the back of his head with a hand, “You’d think that you would be nicer to me considering I’m taking you to see your sugar daddy.”

“You are so annoying, he is not my _sugar daddy.”_

“The guy gave you $300 for just being pretty,” Karl grinned while pulling another shirt from a hanger, “I think he qualifies.”

George rolled his eyes as he watched Karl strip from the previous blue sweater and slip on a white turtleneck, “I helped him with his homework, okay? It was _obviously_ well deserved.” His tone was sarcastic in knowing that it was definitely _not_ deserved.

“Yeah, okay.” Karl scoffs before adding, “does this look good?” He had thrown a plain sweatshirt over the turtleneck and was now modeling awkwardly for George.

“Yes, he’ll love it, I promise. Now can we go?”

“Fine.”

-

Yep, just as George had expected, this was ridiculous.

It was barely past the first intermission of the lengthy hockey game and the two boys had conversed over everything _other_ than the actual logistics of the match. Karl would comment on how good Nick looked in his uniform, but not on any of his plays. George would bounce his eyes around from player to player, but not process why or what they were actually doing.

Their team was barely winning, keeping the audience on their toes when someone would score. The boys would watch as the masses around them became overly passionate about two players throwing their gloves, along with their sticks, down to indicate the beginning of a brawl. The overwhelmingly loud crowd would grow idiotically louder, to which George would plug his ears, and stand up to get a better view as to what was happening on the ice. George, however, would stay seated and roll his eyes at Karl who would jump to his feet to make sure it wasn’t Nick who was about to get bodied. (It never was.)

More often than not, it was a shorter, black-haired man who was very easy to rile up. Karl mentioned his name: Alex, but they called him Quackity for reasons Karl didn’t know and didn’t care to ask. He already managed to participate in three fights and was now sitting in the box for five in-game minutes. The last fight he had partaken in, George happened to catch a glimpse at the large screen above the ice and saw him mouth something along the lines of, _“I’m gonna light your fuckin’ ass up,”_ before pouncing on one of the opposing teammates.

Blood splattered against the white ice and punches were thrown with two referees circling them and breaking them apart before things got too out of hand. Alex managed to come out of every fight unmarked, while the others had been given black eyes and bloody noses. He might be small, but he was one feisty-ass kid.

Looking past the man in the box, his eyes trailed back to where the other players danced around the field, partly listening and nodding as Karl rambled on about something concerning Nick over the loud voices surrounding them. George’s eyes landed on the coach of their home team when he saw him wave over a tall, broad figure from the bench, face obscured by the large helmet he bore. The man replaced someone on the ice after chatting curtly to the coach and providing a pat on the back to the athlete as they crossed by one another.

Had he been late?

He instantly melted into the pace of the unstopped game, promptly getting the puck passed to him and cradling it back and forth between his stick. After a few yards down the arena, an opposing player quickly glided in his direction, to which the broad man passed the puck again, picking up his velocity to get ahead of the other and getting the puck returned to him almost in the blink of an eye. 

Practicing a swift, final shot, the man launched the rubber, hurling at the net and getting it beyond the goalie's head. Their score flew up two points, causing the crowd to scream and chant happily at the shot. George felt almost intrigued.

“Who is that?” George interrupted Karl’s continuous rambling, unintentionally nevertheless, but didn’t feel much remorse as the other only chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder, “what?”

“That’s Clay, numbskull,” Karl choked out through snorting.

“Huh?!” George’s eyes widened, still concentrated on the man, whose profile was now apparent, watching him beam from ear to ear because he had made the goal so easily. George had periodically wondered where the man was, but paid no mind to give a shit, so now seeing him after brushing the thoughts off had caught him off guard.

Especially since he was impressed by the man.

Nick came over to provide Clay a smack on his helmet before skating past, however, he appeared to remember something as he abruptly halted and glided back towards the blonde. Nick whispered something into his ear and George viewed as Clay browsed the crowd while listening to whatever he had to say. His eyes kept scanning and scanning until they eventually froze.

They froze on George.

Those stupid golden irises locked onto George’s face and he felt the need to turn to his right and send a panicked expression to Karl.

“He’s looking at you,” Karl giggled, nudging George’s arm with his elbow.

“Shut up, no he is not, why is he looking at me?”

George had yet to turn back and meet Clay’s stare, expecting to see him laugh or send a wink his way, but instead, when he finally returned his gaze, Clay looked rather flushed. The smile had been wiped off of his face and he was now speaking very quickly to Nick about something that seemed to be bothering him, waving his hands around dramatically.

“You’re making him nervous,” Karl taunted, still grinning.

“You’re an idiot, I am not.” 

There was no way that _George_ was making _Clay_ nervous. The man flaunted his skills all the time to try and swoon George (he played the sport with ease, George would give him that), shouldn’t he be happy he’s here to finally witness them? 

“You are,” Karl continued, “look at him, he's totally freaking out!”

The coach whistled for Nick and Clay, being as they were the only two left on the ice, making them put a pause to their conversation and hastily skate towards the rest of their team.

George glanced back at Karl, who was grinning like an idiot, “he’s not nervous because of me.”

“Mhm…” Karl hummed, still smiling coyly.

-

Clay never glanced back in George’s direction.

He performed with the same coordination and dexterity, however, he didn’t wear that brightening smile that had plastered his face beforehand. When he earned a goal, Clay would simply stare at the crystal floor and dodge the roaring audience altogether.

Karl presented George with knowing looks throughout the game, to which George would pretend he didn’t notice, opting to be distracted by Alex, who was in the box _again._

It was now nearing the conclusion of the match (finally) _,_ and their team was now winning by a landslide thanks to Clay, barely having 2 in-game minutes remaining. Thankfully, George would be able to drain beneath his blankets soon and float to rest, putting this long day to a close, having been conscious since before dawn _like always_.

“Oh, by the way,” Karl mentions nonchalantly, “Nick told me they're throwing a party at their place if they win.”

Come on, this is a joke, right? 

“You’re kidding,” George looks to Karl and displays a face that could be similar to someone whose house had just burned down.

“...No?”

Of course, it wouldn’t be a joke. No sleep for George! Ever! He shouldn’t be shocked at this point.

“George, please!” Karl continues, “it will be fun!”

“I hate you.”

“Pleaseee,” Karl pouts, supplying his best puppy-dog eyes. “Maybe you’ll get laid,” he adds.

“Shut up,” George groans, “I just want to sleep, Karl.”

“Stop being such a-” George glares at him, causing Karl to immediately backpedal, “I mean… You are so great and so hot and hilarious and you definitely get laid all the time. God, you have so much sex, you sex-having guy, you are just so cool. I admire yo-”

“Okay!” George laughs, shoving Karl’s arm, “I’ll go! Just please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up.”

Karl grins so wide that every tooth in his mouth could be seen and attempts to say something (feasibly praising George for being the kind bastard that he is), but alternatively gets cut off by a harsh buzzer and the screaming fans around them. George looks away from Karl and settles his eyes onto the ticking timer, which had now halted, and observed a large display of zero’s, indicating the end of the tournament. Everyone nearby rose to their feet and cheered excessively, which meant (of course), their team won.

“Party time?” Karl yells over loud applause.

“God, you owe me,” George squints, shaking his head in fake malice, “you owe me so hard.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The two boys hurriedly ushered their way to the lobby (Karl couldn’t wait any longer to see his _“beloved Nick”_ ), following the massive herd of celebrating people. They now filled the space outside of the locker room and began waiting for Nick and Clay to part from the door. Nerves suddenly weighted within George’s stomach as they stood there, discerning that he would have to speak to him. In real life.

Does he thank him for the money _again?_ He had repeated that phrase about a million times, but saying it face-to-face couldn’t hurt, right? Or should he bounce off of what Clay has to say?

If Karl was correct in his assumption that he had made Clay nervous, would he even want to talk to George?

His thoughts were disrupted as Karl waved a hand in front of his face, “Hello? I said your name like three times,” Karl laughs, “are you nervous to see your boyfriend? Is that it?” 

“Do you live to make my life miserable?” George rolls his eyes, “and no, I was just… thinking.”

“Obviously, moron. About what?”

“None of your business.”

“Ow, I’m hurt, Gogy.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Gogy?” A distinct voice encroaches into their conversation, “I like that.”

George twisted his head to the side and was faced with a tall, very _sweaty_ Clay who had emerged from the wooden door, Nick not too far behind him.

“NICK!” Karl shouted and sprang onto the aforementioned, engulfing him in a hug, “Congratulations!” Nick encased his arms around Karl and giggled lightly.

“Thanks, baby!”

God, they were so smitten with each other, it made George want to vomit.

Their hug kept going. And going... To the point where Clay glanced over at George and raised his eyebrows, desperate to focus on anything else, “So… Gogy, huh?”

George only chuckled and turned his body away from the other two to face the blonde, “yeah,” he nodded casually, “Karl started calling me that ages ago and, before you ask, I don't know why.”

Facing Clay allowed George to take in how red his cheeks were from skating for approximately three hours. His hair was hanging slightly more than normal and he seemed a tad bit shaky. _Nerves,_ George assumes. His cheeks heat at the sight, prompting him to peer down at the ground and clear his throat.

“I think it’s cute,” Clay says, “might have to steal the nick-name from him,” he follows it with a wink and a sly grin when George belatedly looks up at him.

George rolls his eyes, “whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I would sleep better if you were in bed with me.”

And there was that award-winning personality! The one that George thought would simmer down after their somewhat courteous phone call. George scoffs and looks over to see if Karl and Nick were still hugging, they were, making George realize that he’s going to be stuck with this idiot for who knows how long.

“I’m kidding, _Gogy_ ,” the blonde says, “the offer is available, however, if you decide to stay the night after the party.”

“Why are y-” He prepared on going off and calling him a strand of not-so-nice names, but was cut off before he could get started.

“I’m joking, George!” Clay barks out a laugh, “calm down!”

The nerve he had to tell him to _calm down._ And to think, George was going to thank him for the money again. He decided he wasn’t going to mention it.

“Who even said I was going to the party?” George crossed his arms.

“You’re going,” Karl rang in just in time to reinforce the fact that _yes,_ he _was_ going _._ Clay only grinned at this outcome.

-

He went.

He was at the stupid party that he didn’t even want to be at in the first place and Karl ditched him to hang out with Nick. George loved him to death, but to convince him to come to Nick and Clay’s stupid frat house only to leave him twenty minutes later was kind of a dick move.

He sat on a mustard yellow couch in the living room, accompanied by the floral pattern and stains that he _did not_ want to know the origin of. He watched as people downed alcohol and danced on each other in front of him, making George feel like he should _not_ be watching; the only thing separating them was an old coffee table enveloped in solo cups.

The switching colors of the LED lights weren’t too severe at least, the color faded gradually every minute instead of blinking rapidly every two seconds. The music, however, was loud enough to be heard from George’s dorm room probably. It wasn’t good music either, it was stupid. All of it was stupid and George just wanted to go home and _sleep._

“What’s cooking good-looking?” 

And there’s that voice.

Clay grins as he plops himself directly next to the brunet. George would be annoyed that he chose to sit there if it wasn't _his_ house and _his_ couch. He hadn’t seen the man since arriving and now here he was, unopened beer in hand, along with his phone that was quickly pocketed after taking his seat.

“Hello,” George scoffed, scooting over slightly to give space between their legs.

“Enjoying the party?” Clay laughed, appearing to already know the answer.

“Oh yeah,” George deadpans, “having a blast.”

Clay pretends to take a moment to think, tapping a pointer finger on his chin and tilting his head slightly before adding, “I know a way we could have some fun,” he winks.

George shakes his head, feeling his cheeks warm despite himself, and watches as the blonde laughs that stupid laugh of his and cracks open the can in his grasp, chugging it almost within seconds.

“God, you’re an idiot,” George says with very little malice behind it. Clay only snorts as he tosses the can into a trash can near the sofa and hastily stands up shortly after. “Aw! Leaving me already?” George fakes a frown.

“Don’t worry, Gogy, I would never leave you for too long,” he motions his head towards the kitchen door, “just getting another beer. You want anything?”

Normally, George would not accept the offer, choosing to stay clear-headed and stable enough to stand, but as he looked past Clay, he saw Karl and Nick making out in the corner, practically sucking each other's faces off, and wished he could burn the image out of his mind.

This was going to be a long night.

“Yes,” and before Clay could ask the question, he added, “surprise me.”

-

Now they were here. An hour later, still on the same couch, but quite intoxicated. They had a cycle where Clay would go to the kitchen, get a beer along with something for George, they would sit and talk about random shit that was happening at the party, and then, when they both finished their drinks, another trip to the kitchen was made.

An hour of that continuous cycle was bound to have some effects, as Clay was obviously a light-weight and the drink in George’s red solo cup was quite strong.

George still would rather be home, but at least Clay was providing him with entertainment.

“Hey, George?” Clay giggles, turning his front lazily to face the brunet, “Did I ever tell you how pretty you are?”

Resisting another unwanted blush, he meets Clay’s gaze and smiles at the painfully intoxicated man, “Yes, quite a few times actually.”

George wasn’t _as_ drunk as Clay was somehow, probably because he had eaten a large amount of food at the hockey game beforehand.

“Good because you are very attractive, George,” Clay shifts on the uncomfortable sofa and lowers his head to place it on George’s shoulder. The contact paired with the drunken compliment filled his chest with heat and sent a sharp incline to his pulse. “I mean it. You’re kind too. Sweet, charming, smart,” The boy rambled.

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” The smaller taunts as he playfully pats the side of the younger’s face. On the outside, he likes to think he’s playing it rather cool, but on the inside, his thoughts are slowly turning into a warm, incoherent puddle of mush.

 _It’s just the alcohol,_ George thinks, _you’re just drunk._

Getting flustered by Clay was the last thing George intended on happening. How could he let himself stoop so low?

“You’re the only boy I talk to like this,” Clay drowsily mumbles. George interrupts his hand’s movements and allows his palm to rest idled on the other’s cheek.

_What?_

“What?” He voices, furrowing his eyebrows, confusion spanned across every inch of his muddled mind. 

Was he really? 

The blonde lifts his face away from George’s shoulder, slipping away from his splayed hand and smiling weakly; he unexpectedly flicks George’s forehead shortly after, “I said,'' he drawls, “you’re the only boy I talk to like this, idiot.”

“What was that for?” George asks, exasperated, rubbing the spot between his brows dramatically.

“You’re so stupid,” he huffs, “that did not hurt you.”

“What if it did?” George scoffs before adding, “and I guess you say that to all of the _girls_ , then?”

“I would kiss your stupid forehead better and _no,_ I do not,” he turns away from George and clumsily leans forward to grab at his beer can on the coffee table (because he clearly needs more to drink), however, his aim falters as he grasps at the air to the left of the can. George laughs softly, finding it annoyingly endearing how the man wheezes over his own stupor and eventually fumbles to grab a hold of the drink.

“So you only flirt with _me_?” George asks, continuing the conversation when the man calms down from laughing; an unconvinced smile accompanying the question, “I find that very hard to believe.”

“Are you calling me a man whore?” He pouts, placing a hand over his heart, “you wound me.”

“I didn’t call you a man,” George giggles into his red solo cup, taking a short sip, mainly to hide his amusement.

“Touché Davidson.”

“ _Davidson_?” George guffaws, “I didn’t think you even knew my last name.”

The blonde shakes his head, letting his hair flop back and forth loosely over his eyes, “God, you are impossible,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact with George to look down at his lap and/or the can in his hand.

“What do you mean?” George rolls his eyes, “How?”

“Do you really think that lowly of me?” He finally brings his gaze to meet George’s, and it’s either the alcohol in his system or the gorgeous shades of blue from the LED lights that cast upon his face, making him look completely and utterly breathtaki-

 _No,_ George thinks to himself again, _you’re drunk._

“You just want to fuck me, Clay. I’m not stupid.”

George watches Clay’s chest expand with a deep sigh, followed by another shaking of his head, “you obviously are if you think that’s all I want.” 

A moment passes where the two sit in an eerie quiet, (although it’s not quiet at all because of the blasting music, it just feels as so). George was left rather speechless, leaving them to just look at each other. That's it. They looked at each other until Clay seemingly had enough and rolled his eyes, much like George did before, finishing off his beer and crumpling the empty can in his fist.

There was no hint of humor on Clay’s face, however, nor a trace of amusement in his eyes. He seemed genuinely quite pissed off, an uncharacteristic act for the blonde who always had such a happy demeanor, and for some odd reason, George wanted to make those feelings go away. For some odd reason, George wanted to wipe the disgruntled look off of his face and make him feel better.

But why?

It was the truth, was it not? Clay had objectified him so much over the few months of knowing one another that George had no reason to believe otherwise. Sure, he gave him that money and acted concerned for one night, but nothing changed in Clay’s attitude towards him. It was as if that night never happened.

God, George was confused. Being drunk didn’t aid his stance either.

He cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence, “tell me, then.” Curiosity got the better of him as he instantly regretted requesting such a thing. 

“Tell you what?” Clay scoffs, tossing the crumbled can at the now overflowing garbage bin. He misses by a solid foot, George believes because of the intoxication, but pays no mind to it, instead opting to completely ignore it.

“Tell me what you want,” George says, shrugging, “you said you wanted more than to fuck me, so go on.”

George partly expected to catch Clay in his act and throw him off guard, maybe watch him stutter over his words as he tries to come up with something other than physical attraction. What he _wasn’t_ expecting is what actually came out of his mouth:

“Every part of you, George,” Clay sighs, “yes, you are hot as hell, but that isn’t why I’m drawn towards you. Well, it contributes,” he trails off, “but I also love hearing you laugh, even if you're laughing because of Karl and not me. I love when I catch you skating because you make it look easy and I know it’s not because I have tried to do one of those stupid spin things and I fell on my _ass_ , dude. That's beside the point, though. I love how you get mad when I hit on you, which is why I do it, it’s _cute._ You’re also a fucking genius, like, when you were explaining my homework to me, I had no idea what you were saying.” He lets a short-lived giggle fall past his lips before the corners of his mouth fall back down and he inhales a long breath, “I stay up late thinking about you, I think of you during classes, I could barely focus on the damn puck earlier knowing you were in the audience watching me. I was a nervous wreck,” he smiles an almost embarrassed smile and avoids the meeting of their eyes, “I just want a chance, George. That's what I want.”

_Shit._

That was not anticipated.

No one had ever felt this way towards George. No one _could_ ever feel this way towards George, right? He had to be lying. How could anyone think that strongly about him and mean it? This had to be another ploy. 

It had to be.

George’s cheeks were dark red and hot, not from flushing this time, but anger. How could Clay say this to him and not feel a trace of guilt? Does he know what he’s doing to him? Were his words supposed to be endearing? 

George was seething.

He narrowed his eyes and stared deeply into grassy-colored irises, “fuck you,” he spat. 

“Whoa there-”

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but just quit,” George cut the other off. He ventures to scoot off of the sofa and rise to his feet, but a strong grip wraps itself around George’s wrist, keeping him down. The touch was hot, clammy almost, against his chilled skin.

“I’m not playing games with you, I think we’d be good together.” Clay loosens his hold on George’s wrist when George glances at their hands and supplies a cold look.

“Why are you saying this to me?” George glowers, jerking his hand away with a glare.

“I’m trying to tell you that I care about you. What the hell is wrong?”

“Bullshit.” 

“What do you mean _bullshit?_ God, Isn’t that what you wanted to hear? That I don’t just want to fuck you? Is it so hard to believe that someone could feel this way for you, George?”

_Yes._

“It’s hard to believe that _you_ could. _”_ He put more emphasis on _you_ than he had intended.

Clay goes silent. George watches as the confusion on his face suddenly slips to hurt and it was then that George processed what he had insinuated to the other.

“Do you think I am some soulless bastard or something?” Clay asks, tilting his head, “for fuck’s sake, I have feelings, you know? I like you, George, why can’t you get that?”

George stayed quiet, unknowing of a response he could give that would ease the situation. 

This time around, Clay was the one to arise from the couch, stumbling slightly when he rose too quickly because of the ludicrous amounts of beer in his system. He looked down at George, heart-wrenchingly so, and supplied a bitter scoff along with an eyebrow raise, “thanks for a fun night.”

With those being his final sarcasm-filled words, the blonde kicked an abandoned solo cup out of his way and staggered towards the stairs (assumably leading to his bedroom) before George could retaliate, leaving him to immediately take in their conversation as a whole and bask in his own folly.

He snuck another glimpse at the staircase in time to see a panicked-looking Nick chase after Clay. Groaning, George threw his head back onto the couch cushion behind him and downed the rest of the alcohol in his cup. 

Why was this such a hard concept for him to grasp? Someone wanting him. Why couldn’t he believe Clay? Why couldn’t he believe anyone? He had been this way for as long as he could remember, not ever letting anyone too close, keeping people locked out of his emotions. Safe and guarded.

Maybe he should let someone in.

“What the hell happened between you two!?” A seemingly sober Karl smacked him across the forehead where Clay had earlier flicked him, snapping him back to reality. The lighter-haired man seated himself next to George and stared at him expectantly. “Clay looked hella upset, dude.”

“Karl, why am I such an idiot?” George flops flat on his side, head on top of Karl’s lap, and feels Karl instantly laugh at his expense as he pats the top of his hair. Even though Karl abandoned him all night, he immediately feels solace being near him.

“That bad, huh?” Karls snorts as George bangs his head repeatedly against the other’s leg, in an attempt to maybe knock some sense into himself.

“I’m gonna die alone,” George sighs, accepting his fate.

“You’re not going to die alone,” Karl says, rubbing calming fingers through his hair, “these things take time. You can explain it all to me tomorrow when you’re sober and not drunk off your rocker.”

George sighs, once again, and eventually pulls himself away from Karl’s lap, “if I can even remember,” George lets out a pathetic laugh, “I think I would be happier if I didn’t.”

“Let’s get you home,” Karl smiles, patting his shoulder.

“Don’t you want to stay here with Nick? I’m sure I’ll make it back fine.” 

“We saw things start to escalate and agreed that you guys could both use a friend right now, so he’s upstairs with Clay,” Karl reassures, “besides, you shouldn’t walk home by yourself when it’s dark and you’re drunk. That would be idiotic.”

“Yeah, yeah,” George rubs his hands over his face, trying to block out the changing lights, “my head hurts.”

Karl stares blankly at the empty cup in his hand, “wonder why.”

“Okay, shut up.”

“Come on,” Karl stands and offers a helping hand to George, “let's go.”

“Did Nick at least like your outfit?” George laughs, taking the outstretched palm.

“Yes, actually," Karl smiles, "he loved it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST! I hope I portrayed the emotions that George felt clearly, this chapter was kind of hard to write because I wanted to give George some character depth, along with Dream as well.
> 
> follow me on Twitter if you want... @hannaxe_

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave comments and criticisms :)


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